Chee moved to his spot at the edge of the stage and noticed Silversmith heading toward him. The officer kept his voice low. “The big guy found a big problem with the furnace. You want the details, or shall I just brief Palmer?”
Chee felt his phone buzz and ignored it. “What’s the bottom line?”
“No heat today. The experts who might know what makes it tick have to come from Flagstaff, and they won’t make any promises that they can fix it. Even if they can, the building will take a while to warm up again.”
“Go ahead and tell Palmer.”
He watched the conversation. Palmer went to the microphone and asked the person in the audience who planned to speak next to wait. The mediator moved to the middle of the stage and huddled with the delegates for several minutes. Then he walked to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will resume public commentary in a moment. The heating system won’t be repaired today. I will recess the session when I determine that the room has grown too uncomfortable. Tomorrow’s public input and the scheduled visit by the Navajo Nation president will be postponed.”
Chee heard grumbling in the crowd, but he liked the change of plan. Fewer opportunities for Palmer to come to harm. He looked for Dashee, relieved that his friend could tell Mrs. Bitsoi to postpone the presidential sheep walk, but didn’t see him. If the captain agreed that Silverman could watch Palmer, Chee would meet with Mrs. Bitsoi, maybe even tomorrow.
Audience testimony resumed: a thin, suntanned man with the Silvery Minnow Protection Association who brought big photographs of the tiny fish. The next speaker, an advocate of expanding air quality controls at the canyon to reduce haze, sounded hazy himself.
Instead of taking a lunch break, which would have provided Chee an opportunity to give Blankenship the envelope, the delegates ordered sandwiches to eat at the conference tables.
Chee remembered his phone buzzing earlier and reached to check it.
It was a text from Bernie: Doing a favor for Cowboy. He says hi. Sorry about the keys.
He shoved his cold hands into his pants pockets and leaned against the wall.
23
Bernie had been raised to treat others with respect, especially her elders, but the cantankerous woman Dashee had persuaded her to talk to had worn her patience thin. It didn’t seem to matter what she said; Mrs. Bitsoi remained determined to take her sheep into Tuba City during the meeting tomorrow, to make a statement about an issue that had been decided long ago. Decided in a way that Mrs. Bitsoi, her family, and many others saw as unfair, but decided nonetheless. Bernie knew that sometimes letting people talk, and listening to them, helped diffuse an emotionally charged situation. But that approach hadn’t worked here. At least, not yet. But Mrs. Bitsoi talked on.
They stood at the sheep pen. The story had unfolded gradually in the familiar rhythms of Navajo. Listening to Mrs. Bitsoi was the verbal equivalent of watching her mother weave a rug. Word by word, carefully moving forward. Mrs. Bitsoi started with her sheep, descendants of sheep her grandmother had raised.
Bernie considered words precious, not to be used in excess, and Mrs. Bitsoi already had said the equivalent of the giant Navajo rug on display at the museum in Window Rock. And she talked on.
Bernie understood the anger and sadness. Her hiking clothes did a good job of keeping out the November cold, but other ladies she knew would have asked her in and offered her something to drink.
Cowboy Dashee, after explaining the situation over the phone, met her outside the Justice Center, led her to the Bitsoi place, and made the introductions. He told Mrs. Bitsoi, politely, that the Navajo president would delay his visit to the meeting in Tuba City because the Justice Center had no heat. He stayed long enough to hear Bernie tell the woman, in both Navajo and English, that her livestock were trespassing on land that belonged to the Hopi, and by law her family had to remove the animals or the Hopi tribe would be forced to take action. Dashee did his best to look stern and official, nodding in agreement. Mrs. Bitsoi had said nothing.
Bernie gave Dashee credit for trying to make things easier on this lady and her family. But he was a police officer sworn to uphold the law. He’d driven away an hour ago, leaving it to Bernie to dissuade Mrs. Bitsoi from introducing her flock to the Navajo Nation president and persuade her to relocate the trespassers instead.
Mrs. Bitsoi’s dog watched from a distance. Its muzzle was white with age, in contrast to the black of its winter coat. In another winter or so, Bernie thought, the dog would be too old to work the sheep. Mrs. Bitsoi hadn’t mentioned any relatives who lived nearby, but Dashee had indicated that there were some. Even difficult women had people who looked after them. That was the way it had always worked in Navajoland. But now, raising sheep and cattle wasn’t enough. Young people needed a paycheck, and moved to Flagstaff or Phoenix or Albuquerque. Most did their best to stay in touch, but work, school, and children complicated things. She was lucky to have a job that enabled her to stay close to Mama.
The sky had grown heavy with the promise of the season’s first snowfall. A time of possibilities, she thought, including the possibility that she could persuade this intractable woman to act reasonably.
“Come inside now, girl.” Mrs. Bitsoi finally led the way. She sounded tired. “We will make some tea.”
Bernie found a strainer and a glass jar of tea leaves near some canned tomatoes. She saw a metal pot on the top of the stove. It wasn’t as cold in Mrs. Bitsoi’s hogan as it was outside, but the house was far from warm. The woman stoked the fire.
It took a while for the stove to heat up enough to boil the water, so she sat with Mrs. Bitsoi, who seemed to be done talking. Bernie enjoyed the quiet broken occasionally by the roar of a truck as it made its way up the highway.
When the water was ready, Mrs. Bitsoi made a cup of tea for herself and one for Bernie. The warm drink smelled like sage and autumn, like the tea Mama made. Bernie breathed in its nostalgic aroma with gratitude and wondered what she could say to change the sheep lady’s mind.
When Mrs. Bitsoi put her cup on her lap and wrapped her strong hands around it for warmth, Bernie talked about why moving the sheep to Tuba City was a bad idea, both for the sheep and for the Bitsoi family. She explained that, while the Navajo president might be sympathetic, he lacked the power to change the law that clearly said her dibé, the dear Navajo sheep, were trespassers.